


A Man Who Cares For You

by abscontrix



Category: House of Cards (US TV)
Genre: Clothed Sex, F/M, Floor Sex, Older Man/Younger Woman, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 15:52:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/750285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abscontrix/pseuds/abscontrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No foreplay. No favors. No bullshit. It's the kind of care that Zoe needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Man Who Cares For You

Zoe stood still and silent as Francis had instructed, turning to watch him assess her, assess her apartment, her life. “Do your parents know you live like this?” Francis’s voice was honey caramel over the city noise.

“No.” She held position. “They haven’t visited.”

“Are you cared for?” The warm twist of sympathy in his voice, compassion - it made her stomach lurch. She needed to be cared for, so badly, she did.

“How do you mean?” What was he offering?

“Do you have a man? Who cares for you? An older man?” He started his alpha swagger toward her, and she felt familiar butterflies, the size of bats, swoop around her stomach.

“No.” _Please._

“But you’ve been with older men before.”

“Yes.” She started to smile as she answered; this was him laying down terms.

“Then you know they hurt you. And after they hurt you, they discard you.” The edge of cruelty crept into his voice, a warning.

“You can’t hurt me.” Yes. Zoe knew about older men.

Francis inhaled, a tiger ready to pounce. “Take your heels off.”

Zoe stepped out of them, holding his gaze; no matter their height or power difference, she could hold her own.

He threw his coat and briefcase down, and he _was_ a tiger, throwing her down too. Francis was a man who took what he wanted, and he took Zoe - _he finally took Zoe._

It meant she couldn’t count on him for career help forever, part of her mind processed. That could be dealt with. This was dangerous, but she wanted it - had weighed the pros and cons before she even started texting him, those lonely nights when Zoe Barnes did not feel cared for.

But that was all fine or in the past now, swept away the way Francis had swept her directly onto the floor, pulling her hair and pinning her down hard. Francis would take her, and he would take her as he wanted her; his firm hand allowed no resistance. He bit along her hairline, hard but in a place that wouldn’t leave marks. He dragged her breasts out wantonly from her dress and guided her hand to his belt, more of a command than a suggestion. Zoe loosened his belt deftly, despite his authoritative rutting against her hip (yes, Zoe knew about older men) and her small hand palmed his half-hard cock. He was thick and ramrod straight, which somehow seemed to fit him. Francis growled in her ear and she started to squeeze and stroke rhythmically, a slight twist at the top. Nothing but the best for the Congressman, she thought sardonically to herself.

For all that she managed a moment of irony, though, Zoe was so fucking turned on that she was rutting against Francis in return. He released her hair and leaned back, one hand on her breast and the other snaking between her legs. He gazed down at her, and Zoe held his stare as his broad thumb hooked around her panties and fondled her aching clit, stroked firmly inside her wet heat. Her hips bucked, and Francis smirked. His head dropped to bite her nipple, and Zoe’s breath and hips both hitched this time. Francis took advantage, of course, sliding her panties down and pushing her dress up. He held her eye again as he shifted his hips forward, shuffling his knees to line up his now-hard dick with Zoe’s brazenly exposed wetness. He was fully dressed, fully covered, and he leaned back a moment to look at her hand on his cock. He was impressive by any standard; his dick was as angry and hard as he was. Zoe’s hand was dwarfed in comparison. Francis chuckled warmly. “Well, ain’t that somethin’. I admire your proportions. But let’s do move on.” Zoe set her jaw and maintained eye contact as he lined himself up, then thrust hard to fill her with his cock. No foreplay. No favors. No bullshit.

Zoe thought she was going to cum right then and there. This was part of the care she needed, too; care for the part of her that needed to be punished for the rules she was breaking in her life. For the rules she was breaking for Francis.

And he punished her, no doubt about it. He was stronger than she was expecting, honestly, and it was impressive what such a powerful man could do with a small body like hers. He thrust hard and deep, ruthlessly using her for his pleasure at whatever cost to her. She felt herself clench around him at the thought. The firm plane of his stomach shifted his hips so that he fucked her deeper, and his pubic bone slammed her clit on each brutal pounding. Zoe wanted to cry out, whimper, moan, but her reaction was not what Francis was here for; Francis was here for himself. He did thrust harder when her breath started to run sharp and ragged, near-moans feathering the edge of each exhale, which made Zoe pant harder as he rammed into her, filling her  deeply and smashing her clit.

It didn’t last long; it couldn’t last long, with the buildup, with his smouldering rage and her smouldering lust for him.  Zoe came first, fucking her hips down to get him to rub her clit just right. The pleasure was tight and molten, as sharp as his bites at been. They were both intoxicated on his power, and Francis grunted like an explorer at at top of a peak as he came over the edge with her, continuing to slam her hard through the aftershocks.

When he finally stilled, Francis was mostly slumped over Zoe, still inside her. Part of her was lazily enjoying the sensation of their juices dripping slightly out of her; and part of her was anxiously awaiting what was next.

Francis leaned back on his knees, then stood. Zoe sat up, breasts and sex still exposed, and looked up at him. He fished a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped himself off. “I expect you to remain available.” He dropped the kerchief on her and planted one foot between her legs, dropped a hand to her cheek. “”I’ll be seeing you.” He strode out without a backward glance, whistling in the stairs; but he stopped before he reached the street, because of course it wouldn’t do to be seen leaving a journalist’s apartment whistling.


End file.
